


Infinite and Transient

by Crazymuggleinthestruggle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Romance, M/M, Mediwizard Draco Malfoy, Mediwizards (Harry Potter), Non-Linear Narrative, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27961391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazymuggleinthestruggle/pseuds/Crazymuggleinthestruggle
Summary: "Potter, you might want to take a look at the potion. It's going to burn soon."An affronted pout and thankful (grateful, relieved,knowing) eyes.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Infinite and Transient

**Author's Note:**

> This got out of hand many days ago. have absolutely no excuses, I'm sorry. 
> 
> Much thanks to @talloreo for patiently reading it and telling me to stop. I think the ending is appropriate considering as I had nothing planned for it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Comments and kudos are always appreciated.

The thing is, Draco thinks, the thing is, it's seven years too late and a hundred years too early.

The thing is, Draco thinks, the thing is, you can never really run away from your past. It catches up. Watered down memories and phantom pains. 

The thing is, Draco thinks, the thing is, it might not be a hundred years but it still is too fast.  
***  
St. Mungo's welcomes Draco with open arms and cautious eyes. It's better than the Ministry, though. The Ministry building with its suffocating memories and piercing, suspicious eyes.  
***  
"Potter, you might want to take a look at the potion. It's going to burn soon." 

An affronted pout and thankful (grateful, relieved, _knowing_ ) eyes.  
***  
Draco thinks it might've been a muggy and overcast day. 

Draco thinks his mother might've been there to hold his hands, wipe away his tears, mingle with the guests, make small talk. 

Draco thinks, that can't be right. She had already been buried by then. Shimmering blue eyes, corn blonde hair and too pale skin turned to bones and dust.

Draco thinks of emerald green eyes in the night, a raven's nest of black hair spilling like ink never to be saved. A piercing lighting bolt. A curse and a safety net. A paradox of the worst kind.  
***  
Draco Malfoy faces the Wizengamot when he's eighteen. Too young to be an adult, an adult nonetheless. 

Draco Malfoy faces the Wizengamot when he's eighteen. He waits, petrified and anxious. 

Draco thinks about all the horrible things he's said and done to too many people. He thinks about all the ways he could have been better (braver, smarter, faster). He thinks about all the apologies he's going to make if he survives.  
.  
.  
.  
(But he's a survivor. Persevering, cunning, brave.)  
.  
.  
.  
And then. And _then_.  
In a single horrible moment he stops being petrified and anxious. Instead, he's helpless. 

Finally, _finally_ he lets his tears flow.  
***  
St. Mungo's is better than the Ministry in all possible ways. 

The first day of classes finds him alone in the front row, a resolute stare and an impassive face. A challenge to anyone who wants to take him up on it. 

Except, then the most wonderful and terrible thing happens.  
Wonderful because Harry Potter takes the seat on his right. Because _of course_ he's here, training to be a mediwizard.

Terrible because, well.  
***  
Later, he won't remember anything that was said. 

Instead, he will remember this: the gleam of Hermione’s hair under the sun, the sombre sheen of Victoria’s hat seeming to complement the subdued hue of Pansy’s tie, the rivulets meandering down Ron’s rugged face, Blaise and Goyle, pillars of strength beside him, the pinpricks of pain from his severely bitten nails, the rustle in the trees overhead, an especially strong current of wind.

He will remember this: thousands upon thousands of moments and experiences. The bustle and swelter of St. Mungo's. The short, comfortable summer months and the long, cold, windy winters of London. Shiny sunburn stretching down an expanse of spine and skin. Cramming for tests and pub nights. Ice cream and indecision. Shirt cuffs and graduation robes.  
***  
The first day of classes finds Draco alone in the front row. A challenge to anyone who wants to take him up on it. 

Except, then the most wonderful and terrible thing happens.  
Terrible because, well. 

Hermione Granger takes the seat on his left. Looking, to the world, like a woman on a mission, a soldier with a marksman's ability. 

Draco thinks about the day he was petrified and anxious. He thinks about how he waited and he thinks about the horrible, horrible minute he stopped being petrified and anxious. He thinks about how helpless he felt and finally let his tears flow. He thinks about the apologies. 

And so, on the first day of classes, he offers his first apology, completely sincere. 

And so, on the first day of classes, he thinks he might have made two new friends.

He doesn't stop to think about the one lost to battle.  
He doesn’t stop to think about the other one in Vilnius, never to come back. The death of Crabbe too heavy a memory.  
***  
Draco Malfoy faces the Wizengamot when he's eighteen. He's waiting and petrified and anxious. Then, he's helpless.

His parents are both given death sentences because Dementors are a thing of the past under the careful eyes of Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

Because even though his mum was never officially Marked, she was in Voldemort's inner circle. Potter's evidence didn't undo all the terrible things she had helped accomplish in the past. 

And at eighteen, Draco Malfoy didn't have his parents anymore. 

Draco Malfoy was eighteen and heart-broken.

Eighteen and world-weary.

Eighteen and alone.  
So very alone.  
***  
The thing about Potter is, Draco thinks, the thing is he is sinfully easy to love. 

Emerald green eyes and a raven's nest of black hair. A cursed lighting bolt which is not all that cursed. Hard lines and easy smiles.  
.  
.  
.  
It was easy to fall in love with Harry Potter.  
.  
.  
.  
(It was what came after that was difficult.)  
***  
It became a routine for them. Revision and homework from Monday to Thursday. Pub nights on Friday that were joined by Pansy, Ron and Blaise. Sometimes (more often than not, really) Longbottom, Weasley sister and Lovegood came along as well. Weekends were reserved for tests. 

The first few months had passed in apologies, stilted conservations and a brittle sense of civility. After that, slowly and steadily with the unwavering support of inordinate amounts of alcohol, the early blooms of friendship were seen. 

Four years passed soon enough.  
***  
A barely audible whisper. A shrine to the days passed.  
"Scared, Malfoy?"

A choking sound. Tears falling hot and fast.  
"Don't you fucking die on me. Don't you dare!"  
***  
It takes him five years.  
.  
.  
.  
A year more than it took him to graduate.  
***  
Draco, Hermoine and Harry graduate in April. It is a pleasant day with an ever present sun and a light wind. The wind carries the smell of carnations, lilies, tulips and daffodils that litter the graduation ground. 

Draco and Hermoine share the first place. Blaise and Ron are in the audience. They are officially Aurors. Pansy is graduating journalism school the next day. 

They are twenty two and invincible.  
Twenty two and for the first time absolutely certain what they want to do.  
***  
It took two years of pushing and prodding, exasperated sighs and eye rolls from his friends (even god help him, _Ron_ ) before Draco asked Harry out. 

Dating was not so different from their friendship. They bickered, answered the phone lounging on the sofa, halfway through a marathon of films they should probably have stopped watching, now that they knew them by heart.  
***  
They had been together for almost fifteen years before everything burned and crashed. Because, apparently, all good things must come to an end.  
***  
Draco is twenty two and the first in his class and he thinks how proud his parents would have been. 

Draco is twenty two and he thinks about how he never really came out to his parents, but his mother still somehow knew. 

Draco is twenty two and on his way to become a heart specialist and he thinks about all the people he wants to help.  
***  
In the ends, it all boils down to this. 

.  
.  
.

It was in the first few days of July. Harry had been a few weeks away from turning thirty five. 

They had been on their way to lunch with their friends. 

An overlooked Voldemort fanatic and a curse that prevented air from reaching his lungs. 

A curse that prevented Draco from apparating him to St. Mungo’s. 

Hermine, Ron, Pansy and Blaise seconds away. 

The ambulance light years away.

Draco Malfoy helpless and terrified. 

Seventeen years and history repeating.  
.  
.  
.  
A barely audible whisper. A shrine to the days passed.  
"Scared, Malfoy?"

A choking sound. Tears falling hot and fast.  
"Don't you fucking die on me. Don't you dare!"  
***  
Spring blossoms, full speed ahead towards a scorching summer. Draco and Harry cook dinner and bicker over garlic-tomato ratios. 

The television is on, flicking white and blue and red, silent. Adverts, maybe. Outside London sleeps, hesitant.

The world continues to fizzle and turn.  
***  
At thirty six, Draco Malfoy doesn’t have Harry anymore. 

Draco Malfoy is thirty six and heart-broken.

Thirty six and world-weary.

Thirty six and alone.  
So very alone.  
.  
.  
.  
(Except he isn’t. Not really.)  
.  
.  
.  
There is Pansy, who never let the reporters harass him. 

Ron, who never lets him go hungry. 

Hermoine, who is there arranging and planning with him at every step of the way. 

Blaise, who takes him out of the flat every day like clockwork. Away from the nagging memories and lingering presence of Harry. 

Goyle, who comes back from Vilnius and is a constant, stoic presence.  
***  
He was a good man, he thinks he'll say, when they ask about him. He was good.  
.  
.  
.  
(But they already knew that, didn't they?) 

Draco laughs, and then Draco throws up.  
***  
Here is everything Draco knew about Harry before:

He wears a lot of primary colours.

He works harder than anyone he has ever met.

He has a sharp memory and a varied sense of humour.

He will go off into fits of laughter at the most inappropriate moments. 

He drinks exorbitant amounts of tea.  
.  
.  
.  
Here is everything he knows later:  
He wears a lot of primary colours.

He works harder than anyone he has ever met.

He has a sharp memory and a varied sense of humour.

He will go off into fits of laughter at the most inappropriate moments. 

He drinks exorbitant amounts of tea with too much milk and too little sugar. 

He is mildly allergic to peppermint.

He carries a lily with him whenever he feels sad. 

His favorite color is rainbow because he wants every colour to be loved.

He’s incredibly ticklish. 

His favourite flavour, despite what everyone may think, is blueberry. 

He is a nightmare to sleep next to. He kicks and steals the covers and drools and snores really loudly, but he cuddles like his life depends on it.  
***  
The crème de la crème of heart specialists.

(Or so Harry said, seven months ago, over Caesar salad and peanut butter ice creams.)  
***  
_Do you know what it is to be a lover?_ Mallorie Cobb asks on the television. _To be half of a whole?_

Yes, Draco whispers inside his mouth, behind closed lips. 

Truth be told, it was better not knowing.  
.  
.  
.  
He has slept (barely) and showered (excessively) and eaten (choked down buttered bread). 

Draco is slumped in his chair, reading his school reports. Unsure what to do. 

(Uncommunicative, sullen, antisocial. Highly intelligent and diligently hard-working)  
***  
What happens after we succeed?  
.  
.  
.  
What happens after we fail?  
.  
.  
.  
What happens to us after?  
.  
.  
.  
(What happens to him?)  
***  
Draco looks across at Mal Cobb. 

Suddenly, uncertainly, he thinks about himself. Sixteen years old and scared. Trying to accomplish an almost impossible task. 

Mal Cobb looks apathetic at best, unperturbed.  
.  
.  
.  
("I don't want this to be real," he doesn't say.)


End file.
